Two songs, if you let them be two.

Ice-pings: long, glassy, from the tarn, changing when you walk (you stay on the edge) because ice is a drum the size of a field. Flue-vowels: shorter, house-shaped, on and off with wind. You can tell them apart the way you tell a cello from a bottle.

Ellis wants them to be a duet of spirits. You let them be a duet of weather. That is still a duet.

Hoarfrost has begun on the trailhead box lid, feathers of ice growing from nothing you can see except wet air and cold metal. Ghosts in stories breathe fog. You breathe fog. Congratulations: you are weather too.

The stove-table would like this unstacking. The thermometer would like to be in the proof.

You tap the box lid and hoarfrost rings, a tiny glass. Two songs, two rooms of the same house: ice-field and stove-throat. Unstacking them is how you stay kind to miners and kind to yourself. Kindness is not the same as going in.